


Better Off

by Whedonista93



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Sandor Clegane Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 21:08:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30112074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whedonista93/pseuds/Whedonista93
Summary: Sansa Stark worms her way into Sandor’s life before he’s quite aware it’s happening.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 86





	1. The Middle

Sandor allows himself a brief moment to just _look_ , trying to commit the image before him to memory. Sansa lays on her stomach, bare to where the bedsheet is pooled around her waist, with the faint early morning light highlighting the mass of red hair splayed around her. His fingers itch to brush a stray strand out of her face, but he doesn’t dare risk waking her. If she turns those baby blues on him… he knows he won’t have the strength to walk away. 

With one last look, he sets a note on the table, turns, and walks away.

* * *

_You’re better off without me._

The note trembles in Sansa’s hand as she scrambles for her phone and frantically dials his cell, only for an automated recording to tell her it’s been disconnected. With no idea how much of a headstart Sandor has on her, she’s dressed and out of her apartment within ten minutes. She doesn’t see his truck on the short drive from her apartment to his, and his dresser is empty when she lets herself into his apartment. Despite the fact that it’s too early for anyone to be there, she drives by _Blackwater_. Unsurprisingly, his truck isn’t there either. Finally, she turns toward his studio. His property manager is walking out when she pulls up to the curb.

Sansa hops out of her jeep and waves the man down. “Pod!”

Podrick smiles. “Morning, Sansa!”

Sansa nods toward the studio. “Is he in?”

Podrick’s smile falters. “He… he didn’t tell you?”

Sansa’s heart crops into her stomach. “Tell me what?”

Podrick shuffles nervously. “He called me as soon as the office opened this morning.” He digs into his pocket and offers the keys to her.

Sansa takes them on reflex.

“He paid the lease through the next year and told me to give you the keys.”

Sansa’s mind screeches to a halt. “He did _what_?”

Podrick shrugs. “That’s all he said. Uh… you know the alarm codes?”

Sansa nods absently.

Podrick mutters a polite goodbye, then beats a hasty retreat.

Sansa stands on the sidewalk for a full five minutes before she shakes herself to enough awareness to actually go into the studio. At Sandor’s drafting table, on an index card, she finds a second note.

_Better off._

Sansa watches the clock impatiently until noon, then drives back to _Blackwater_.

Bronn holds his hand up in surrender the second she walks through the back door. “Swear to the gods I don’t know where the fucker went.”

Sansa immediately deflates, her last hope crushed. She manages to make it to the worn leather couch in the corner of Bronn’s office before her legs give out. Bronn fishes a bottle of good whiskey out of one of his desk drawers and shakes it at her. Sansa shakes her head.

Bronn shrugs and takes a swig from the bottle. “He really didn’t tell ya he was leavin’.”

Sansa shakes her head again.

“Daft fucker,” Bronn swears.


	2. The Beginning

“Now what in the hells is a pretty little thing like you doing in a dive like this?” The bartender asks Sansa good-naturedly.

Sansa smiles sharply. “Avoiding the pretty little fuckboys of my usual haunts.”

The bartender laughs heartily. “Mouthy. I like it.” He offers his hand over the bar. “I’m Bronn. This is my shithole of a place.”

Sansa reaches out and shakes his hand firmly. “Sansa.”

Bronn winks. “Anyone hastles ya,” he jerks his chin toward a shadowed corner on the other side of the bar, “go hide with that big ugly fucker and tell ‘im I sent ya.”

Sansa nods. “Alright.”

Bronn grins approvingly. “Now, what can I get for you?”

“Whiskey sour?”

Bronn’s approving smile stretches. “Not bad taste, girl. First one’s on the house.”

Sansa makes it through the first hour in peace. “Your music sucks!” She tells Bronn.

Bronn rolls his eyes, but hands her a token and nods to the jukebox. “Then change it.”

Sansa beams and makes her way over to the old machine, selecting an old grunge rock album she remembers Theon listening to when they were teenagers.

Bronn chuckles and hands her a fresh drink when she saunters back over to the bar. “You’re a surprising creature.”

Sansa winks, then turns and throws her drink when someone’s hand lands on her ass. The drunk behind her blinks blearily. “Hands to yourself,” Sansa warns before turning back to the bar and shaking her empty glass toward Bronn. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Bronn obligingly mixes her a new drink, then nods meaningfully toward the hulking figure in the shadowed corner he’d indicated when she arrived.

Sansa, still feeling the slight sting of the drunk’s hand on her ass, nods and weaves her way through the crowd. The drunk follows. Sansa watches him in the mirror behind the bar and grimaces.

Buzzed enough to feel bold, she approaches the man at the table with an extra sway to her hips and uses a hand on his shoulder for leverage to swing herself into his lap. “Sorry that took so long, sweetie, handsy drunk.” She holds her tumbler up. “Bronn had to make me a new drink.”

She can practically feel the heat off the glare the man sends at the drunk, who promptly scrambles away.

Sansa slumps back against her savior in relief. “Thank you. I’m not sure I believed Bronn when he said I could duck into this corner for help.”

“Most women don’t take him up on that,” a low voice says in her ear.

Sansa grins and glances up. Her breath catches at the sight of stormy gray eyes partially obscured by a few dark curls. She imagines most women would find the scars off putting, but she’s seen worse. She grins. “Well, aren’t you interesting.”

* * *

Sansa Stark worms her way into Sandor’s life before he’s quite aware it’s happening. One night, he’s drinking alone. A month later, he can’t remember the last time he was at the bar without Sansa at his table. Two months later, they have a standing weekend coffee meeting. Three months later, they’re meeting for lunch every Wednesday. Four months later, weekend nights not spent at the bar are spent on one of their couches with crappy television and takeout. Five months later, they have keys to each other’s apartments; Sandor never uses his, but it’s no longer a surprise to come home and find Sansa in his kitchen cooking.

It takes six months for Bronn to call him out. “When the fuck are you gonna tell that girl how you feel?”

Sandor almost drops his end of the new bartop they’re installing. “What?”

Bronn rolls his eyes. “You’ve been datin’ the girl for the last six fuckin’ months and you’re the only fuckin’ person who doesn’t realize it.”

“We’re friends. And only the gods know why she wants even that much from me,” Sandor protests.

Bronn scoffs. “She wants more than that from you, ya daft fucker.”

Sandor sets his end of the bartop down with a grunt. “Doesn’t fucking matter. I’m selfish enough to accept her friendship. I’m not selfish enough to take more.”


	3. The End

“I don’t care what you tell him, Pod,” Arya growls. “Just fucking get him here.”

“How, though?” Podrick asks.

Arya grits her teeth. “I. Don’t. Care.”

“Tell him he has to verify I.D. or notarize some form for the lease to be renewed,” Gendry suggests.

Arya nods. “Yes, do that. She made you promise not to tell him the truth. She never made you promise not to make him come back so he could see it for himself.”

Podrick shuffles his feet nervously. “I don’t know…”

“I swear to the gods, Pod, just fucking do it, or I’ll find someone to hack your computer and do it myself.”

“It’s on the company server,” Podrick protests.

“Even better,” Arya grins savagely. “I’ll just ask Brienne.”

“No! Gods, I’ll do it!”

Arya reaches up and pats his cheek. “Good lad.”

* * *

Sandor curses himself the whole drive back to the city. He should have had the foresight to pay the lease on the studio further than a year out. He considered not coming, but… he can’t do that Sansa.

He knows she’s better off with him leaving. But just as much as he knows that, he knows him leaving would have hurt her. He justified it to himself by also leaving her his studio - she’d spoken so often of starting her own shop…

Coming back here makes thinking of her inevitable, but he tries to shake it off as he pulls into a parking spot in front of the property manager’s office. He glances across the street as he steps out of his truck, and promptly runs into a lightpost on the sidewalk.

Sansa’s familiar blue eyes stare down at him worriedly, her red hair curtaining them both when he blinks his eyes back open. “Are you okay?”

Sandor groans and sits up slowly, Sansa’s hands hovering worriedly around his shoulders. “I’m fine,” he grunts.

Sansa smiles softly and gently runs her fingers over the rapidly forming bruise on his forehead. He closes his eyes, not quite able to refrain from shuddering at her touch. He hadn’t realized how used to her tactile nature he’d become until he left. He forces his eyes open and looks down at the baby carrier next to her feet. Gray eyes blink up at him from under a fringe of red curls.

“Sansa…”

Sansa follows his gaze and nods. “His name is Vyctor.”

Sandor blinks at her. “You gave him a Clegane name?”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Well, he _is_ yours.”

“But… I… you… we… you never… what?”

“You had made yourself rather scarce by the time I knew, love.”

“I abandoned you, and you still…”

“You didn’t know.”

Sandor shakes his head. “Not about him, no, but I left you just the same.”

“You thought you were doing the right thing… even if you were woefully misguided.”

“Sansa…”

“No,” Sansa holds a hand up to cut him off. “I know you don’t believe it now, but one of these days, I will convince you that I love you and-”

“I believe you.”

Sansa’s face falls. “Why then?”

Sandor reaches up and cups her cheeks, using his thumbs to gently brush away the tears gathering in her eyes. “ _Because_ I believe you. Don’t you know how much better you could do?”

Sansa bats his hands away, expression abruptly shifting from forlorn to angry. “You don’t get to decide that for me, Sandor.”

“Sansa-”

“No. Listen. Would you ever hit me?”

Sandor’s back straightens. “Never!”

“Would you ever use me for what my name can get you?”

“No.”

“Would you ever cheat on me?”

“Are you fucking insane?”

“That’s what supposedly better men, men with good looks and respected names, have done, Sandor. Is that what you would wish on me?”

Sandor reaches for her again, and breathes a sigh of relief when she lets him. “People don’t love me, sweetheart, and bad things happen to people I love.”

“I love you, Sandor, and the only bad thing that’s ever happened to me because of you is you leaving me. Just stay,” she reaches up and grasps his wrist, just below where her hand cups her cheek. “Stay and give me a chance to show you that it’s okay.”

Sandor’s eyes drift closed. “Are you this forgiving with everyone?”

He feels her shake her head. “No,” he can hear the smile in her voice. “Just you.”

“Why?”

“Look at me.”

Sandor opens his eyes obediently.

Sansa smiles prettily. “Because I refuse to let you sabotage our potentially beautiful life without giving us a chance.”

Vyctor, apparently at the end of his patience, lets out a pitiful wail.

Reality abruptly surrounds them again. “We’re sitting on the sidewalk,” Sandor mutters.

Sansa, deftly scooping Vyctor out of his carrier, laughs brightly. “We are. You ran into a pole.”

“Aye,” Sandor grumbles. “Because I saw you.”

Sansa grins. “I’m flattered.”

Sandor nods. “And him.”

“Hold your arms out,” Sansa demands.

Sandor does so warily, not at all surprised when Sansa deposits Vyctor into his arms with no hesitation. What does surprise him, is that the baby immediately stops fussing, looking up at him curiously. This close, he realizes the lad’s eyes match his own.

Sansa smooths Vyctor’s curls back from his face with a gentle touch. “Sandor, I would like to officially introduce you to Vyctor Bronn Clegane. Vyc, this is Daddy.”

Sandor blinks. “You named him after Bronn?!”

Sansa shrugs unrepentantly. “We never would have met if not for Bronn.”

Sandor shakes his head. “Gods, he must be smug.”

Sansa grins. “Very.”

Sandor looks down at his son. “He’s so tiny.”

“He’s only a few months old, love. He’s actually rather big for his age.”

“He’s perfect.”

Sansa nods. “He is.”

“There was never any paperwork, was there?” Sando realizes suddenly.

Sansa laughs brightly. “No. Arya got tired of my moping and threatened Pod to get you here.”

“I should be angry with them,” Sandor protests half-heartedly.

Sansa shakes her head. “How can you be angry at anything with him in your arms?”

“Havin’ a hard time of it,” Sandor admits.

“You’ll stay, then?” Sansa asks hopefully.

Sandor takes a deep breath and forces himself to meet her eyes. “Aye, I’ll stay.”


End file.
